


Shatter

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 04, Sex in the Impala, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-27 23:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10057283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: The night air burns Castiel’s skin the closer he flies to the surface, through the temporal warp he’s created just for this, only to be sucked down to earth mere milliseconds later. He doesn’t land as smoothly as he wants, or as he pictured it in his head—sure, he imagined gliding gracefully into the front seat with his hands neatly folded in his lap, composed as always, winded despite his Grace from traveling for the first few times in eons. But this, this is different—he arrives with not so much as a whisper as a wild rush, fitting into the passenger seat nicely, but still in enough haste to terrify the driver of the black behemoth into pulling over, foot heavily jammed on the brake.It’s a wonder he doesn’t fly through the windshield.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redbatman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbatman/gifts).



> Featuring Cas from season four and Dean from pre-season one!

The night air burns Castiel’s skin the closer he flies to the surface, through the temporal warp he’s created just for this, only to be sucked down to earth mere milliseconds later. He doesn’t land as smoothly as he wants, or as he pictured it in his head—sure, he imagined gliding gracefully into the front seat with his hands neatly folded in his lap, composed as always, winded despite his Grace from traveling for the first few times in eons. But this, this is different—he arrives with not so much as a whisper as a wild rush, fitting into the passenger seat nicely, but still in enough haste to terrify the driver of the black behemoth into pulling over, foot heavily jammed on the brake.

It’s a wonder he doesn’t fly through the windshield.

“What’re—” the driver stammers once the car comes to a halt, the engine stuttering when he shuts it off with the deft flick of a wrist. Castiel looks over with a hand on the dashboard, at the green eyes lit by the lone power pole on this barren stretch of road, at the soft swell of lips he’s come to know in the last few weeks, the freckles that span across his nose, now barely visible in the darkness. He watches Castiel with terror in his eyes, one hand gripping the wheel, the other reaching for the back of his pants, for the gun Castiel knows is there.

“You can’t hurt me,” Castiel says, and he swears he sees Dean’s eyes dilate with just the roughness of his voice.

But this isn’t the Dean he knows—this Dean is younger, softer despite his hard edges. A Dean without Hell blotting his soul, a Dean with innocence in his smile, like the world can’t get any worse than it already is, but he loves it for what it’s given him. No hope, no peace, but a chance to change the lives of those he cares for, the ones lost and gained through his presence. The Dean he knows is still asleep in his motel room in Tallahassee, but this Dean is parked on a dirt road miles south of North Platte, hard faced and terrified, white knuckled and strung in the driver’s seat.

This is exactly where Castiel needs to be.

“How do you…” Dean starts; for a split second, he pulls his hand away in hesitation, only to reach for his gun again, muzzle pressed over Castiel’s heart, over the ripped stitch he patched with his Grace, just to keep his Dean from seeing what pain he brought within the first minute of their meeting. “Talk—”

“You can’t kill me,” Castiel says, stern, narrowing his eyes just enough; Dean swallows under the attention, his previously steady hand now trembling, his breaths coming in ragged pants. To emphasize, Castiel reaches up and takes Dean’s wrist, feeling the tremor just barely beneath his skin, and urges him to press harder, Dean’s finger on the trigger. “It didn’t work the first time you tried, either.”

For a long, arduous second, Dean holds his breath, his jaw clenching with the strain. “Talk,” he repeats, his voice wavering. He’s trying so hard, Castiel knows, but his resolve is already wearing thin, from age and an ache in his bones he can’t shake, no matter how hard he tries. “Talk, or so help me, I’ll—”

“It won’t work,” Castiel reiterates, a smirk upticking his lips. Dean is warm under his fingertips, his pulse rapid and stuttering, ticking in time with his erratic breaths. Fear grips him, of the unknown, of his own mortality, everything all at once. In an attempt to soothe, Castiel slackens his grip, smoothing his fingers over the fragile skin of Dean’s wrist just to feel him quiver. It only serves to mount his frustration though, confusion wracking Dean’s brain the longer Castiel touches him, until he manages to work his gun out of his hand and drop it into the footwell.

There, unarmed, he’s vulnerable.

How he manages to pull a pocketknife is yet to be understood, but in the next second, he shoves Castiel against the passenger door with ease, knife pressed to his throat. “What are you,” Dean growls, and Castiel just grins, heightening Dean’s rage even further.

“I’m an Angel,” Castiel supplies, earning a disgruntled scoff.

“Right,” Dean huffs and pushes the blade harder, just enough to draw a thin red line across Castiel’s throat. “And what’s an Angel doing here?”

Why was he there? If he asked himself, he’d say it was simply to observe, to find out why Dean is the way he is, what happened in his past to form the man who’s so unwilling to speak his mind, who’s willing to put his life on the line for the greater good, who’s so unable to accept that there may be something inside him that’s worth saving.

This Dean, though, he’s angry for different reasons, reasons Castiel can’t even begin to understand. “I wanted to know more,” Castiel answers, finally, and reaches up to take Dean’s wrist, Dean’s other arm being used to pin Castiel into the door. “You’re curious. What do you think this will accomplish?”

Dean blinks at the question, rearing back enough to retract the blade; Castiel doesn’t follow, just lets him mull it over, his lip between his teeth. He doesn’t know what he’s up against, can’t even fathom the existence of Angels, let alone a creature that has no intent to hurt him. “You’re not real,” Dean mutters in disbelief, his grip on his blade still white-knuckled, his hand shaking.

Castiel covers it with his own, rubbing his thumb over the scabs covering Dean’s hand, waiting for him to relax, to let go. He eventually does, the knife joining his pistol on the floorboards. “I assure you, I am,” Castiel offers. With his free hand, he reaches up to run the backs of his fingers over Dean’s cheek, feeling him both recoil and lean into the touch. “You don’t think you deserve this, even now,” he says, mostly to himself, entranced in the look Dean shoots him, despairing and conflicted.

“You’re not… You can’t be,” Dean mutters. He hangs his head, eyes pinched shut, even as Castiel strokes down his jaw to the curve of his neck, to the hollow of his throat where he bleeds warmth into the air. His necklace sways when he leans closer, distracting until Dean speaks again, even more broken, “If you were, then where the hell’ve you been?”

“It wasn’t your time to know,” Castiel says, probably not as helpful as Dean would like. “We’re not here to carry out humanity’s whims, as much as you would like to think. What happens is fated. We’re not meant to interfere.”

At that, Dean sighs, almost wounded. “Tell that to this,” he says, and pulls up his shirt to reveal the mottled purple bruise spreading across his right ribcage, deeper in some areas, forming the definite ridges of a palm. It takes all of Castiel to not reach out and touch, to cover the blotch and erase the pain with just a thought, but he can’t, not until Dean lets him in. “Little parting gift for fucking up two weeks ago. Pretty sure the old man broke something.”

“Your rib is fractured,” Castiel mentions. He waits for Dean’s scrutiny to ease, Dean’s resolve falling just enough to allow Castiel to rest his hand over the mark, fingers slotting perfectly over what must have been open handed. Before Dean can even question him, Castiel lets his Grace sing with almost miniscule effort, and together they watch the bruise fade; Dean hisses through his teeth the second his rib connects, and for probably the first time in days, he breathes easier, lungs inflating under Castiel’s hand. “Is that proof?”

Dean swallows a hiccup, reaching down to feel over his rib with unsteady fingers. “You’re…” He stops, looks up to meet Castiel’s eyes, now even more horrified with just the concept that someone, something, would take the time to touch him, to mend his wounds without a second thought.

If anything, Castiel is nothing but patient, still absently thumbing Dean’s ribcage underneath his shirt; he hasn’t eaten in a while, Castiel figures, his stomach flat and hollowed, expanding when he breathes. Whether he’s ticklish or not, Dean won’t let it show, even when Castiel begins to rub small, monotonous circles over the smooth skin there. Meanwhile, he watches Dean mull over his thoughts, no doubt trying to reconcile the fact that an Angel is in his car, and said Angel isn’t trying to murder him. “Like I said,” Castiel says in the interval, pulling his hand away, and for a hazy moment, he swears Dean chases him, “I know you, Dean. I know your words and your actions, the decisions you make, but I don’t know how they became so ingrained into you for you to throw yourself on the line for someone you don't know.”

“Guess that’s just how I am,” Dean says, chuckling despite how pained it sounds. “Still don’t get it though, why… Out of everyone, why me? Why now?”

Castiel leans up on one elbow, reaching up to run his fingers along the curve of Dean’s jaw, to his chin, a single fingertip trailing down to his Adam’s apple. That Dean is allowing such incredible intimacy without a fight is a testament to his apprehension, but ever so slowly, Castiel feels him soften, heartrate beginning to slow. “You’re special,” Castiel replies with mirth. He presses his palm over Dean’s breast, letting his heart pulse into his palm, no longer rabbit-quick and threatening to seize. At least, not for now. “I’ve been trying to figure out _why_. Why, of all of humanity, why are you so special? What makes you different from all the rest?”

“Million dollar smile?” Dean joshes, his lips splitting into a grin. There it is—There’s that humor Castiel knows so well, always a deflection away from what really matters.

“You don’t see it, do you?” Rising up further, Castiel covers Dean’s hips with broad hands, and it’s only then that Dean realizes just where he is, how precariously perched he is over Castiel’s waist, one knee threatening to fall off into the footwell. With no effort, Castiel keeps him upright, strong hands on an incredibly fragile body—if he wanted, he could snap Dean, kill him with the flick of a wrist or suffocate him with a look. Dean must know this too, based on how he’s breathing, lungs inflating in a struggling effort to keep himself calm, his hands pressed hard over Castiel’s, unaware if he should push away or drag him closer. “You don’t see what you’re worth. You can’t.”

Sheepish, Dean ducks his head, looking anywhere but Castiel, particularly fixated on the cassette player. “I’m not worth much,” Dean admits, flushing red. Castiel squeezes his hip, urging him on. “’M serious. Don’t got time in my job to think about myself when I gotta take care of everyone else. They’re the ones who need it, not…” He stops, shakes his head. “I’m just doin’ what I know. Ain’t nothin’ worthy about that.”

“But you are.” He strokes Dean’s cheek with his palm, reveling in the warmth there and Dean’s unwilling ease as he falls into it, eyes fluttering shut, lip caught between his teeth. “I’ve seen your hands work. You’ve saved lives, Dean, including your brother. You wouldn’t hesitate if it meant someone could go home at the end of the day.” Dean refuses to look at Castiel while he talks, instead curling further into Castiel’s hands, a vain attempt to ignore his words. Still, Castiel goes on, “Your soul is pure.”

“Makes you think that?” Dean scoffs, his eyes opening just the slightest, glassy. “You don’t even…”

“I want to know you,” Castiel says, inching closer, tilting Dean’s face towards him with the slightest pressure. Wary, Dean watches him, unconsciously running his tongue over his lower lip, the shine of it intoxicating in the night. Something akin to ardor pulses through Castiel at the sight, his lips parting when Dean leans in with heat flushed cheeks, close enough for Castiel to notice how his lashes fan over his eyes, half lidded in wait. “I know every atom of you, Dean Winchester,” Castiel remarks, stroking a hand down Dean’s chest, meeting the rise and fall of his breath before catching his fingers on the waistband of his jeans. “I know you to your core, to the very soul housed within this body. But I don't know _you_ , or your reasoning, or why you won’t give into your basest desires.”

Dean exhales, breath warm against Castiel’s lips, so close; if he wanted, Castiel could cup Dean’s neck and draw him in, drink him down like precious nectar and bathe in his sin, hold this youthful body under him, so familiar yet so foreign to his touch. If anything, he can sense Dean lust for it as well, yet still apprehensive, still trembling when he reaches up to cover Castiel’s clothed shoulder with his hand, bunching up the fabric as he squeezes. “But how?” Dean asks, low, breath caught when Castiel thumbs his lower lip, pushing in far enough to feel the warmth of Dean’s tongue.

For the first time in millennia, Castiel wants. Wants this warmth, wants to feel Dean beneath him, to feel the give of his muscles and the wetness of his lips against his. Ever so gently, Dean laps at the digit, soon closing his lips around it, his eyes dilated in full; Castiel barely suppresses a moan, and with supreme restraint, he forces himself not to throw Dean into the leather and take. No, his Dean wouldn't appreciate that—this Dean wouldn't either, especially without an explanation.

“Tell me you want this,” Castiel murmurs, slipping his thumb free and rubbing the wetness across Dean’s lips; this time, Dean does follow, pressing a kiss to Castiel’s palm.

“Don’t even know you,” Dean says; he pushes Castiel’s sleeves up to kiss the underside of his wrist. All the while, Castiel watches green eyes stare up at him, half lidded and exhausted, yet desperate for anything. Touch, affection, release, everything he wants yet nothing he feels he deserves. “Don’t even know your name, but I… trust you. ‘N I don’t know why, ‘n it scares the shit outta me.” He’s shaky when he exhales, eyes slipping shut, like he doesn’t watch to have a witness; still, Castiel waits for him to continue, absently stroking circles beneath his navel just to feel his skin jump. “…Why me?” he sighs, pressing their foreheads together, noses just barely brushing. “Coulda jumped into someone else’s car, but why…”

“I told you,” Castiel reiterates, firm. They’re so close now, close enough for Castiel to revel in the warmth bleeding off Dean, his arousal evident against Castiel’s palm; whether or not Dean notices—or cares—remains to be seen. “Our circumstances are very much entwined. Let me know you, Dean,” he stops, waits for Dean to look at him, a promise on his lips when he does. “Let me know you, in every way.”

Sparks flutter through him when Castiel closes the gap, like Dean’s soul is physically reaching for him with one kiss, Castiel’s Grace skittering through his veins, through his fingertips and into Dean’s hips. Dean moans and pulls back, only to curl in and tug Castiel in closer, hands in his hair. Willingly, he allows Dean to press him into the passenger door, their hips slotting together in a rush; one hand to Dean’s hip, Castiel guides them together, swallowing down every moan, every pant he emits when they part, just to rush together again. “You said you know me,” Dean blurts just as Castiel begins to suck at his neck, drawing a purpled bruise just below Dean’s ear. “Not me, but, me in the— _shit_ —future. Have we…”

“Never,” Castiel says, fisting Dean’s hair; Dean lets out a groan, hips arching down harder now, grinding into the burgeoning swell of Castiel’s arousal. Just barely, he holds back his moan, more content to let Dean grind down onto him, slow, sinuous rolls that spike Castiel’s fever higher, his hips hitching up to meet Dean’s. “You never allow yourself to have what you want.”

“Shame,” Dean says through a whine, letting out a rough breath against Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel manages to pull him into another kiss before Dean sits up, flushed deep scarlet down to his shirt collar, mouth open, full lips even plusher with kisses. Those same lips pull into a smirk when he goes on, “Kinda like the idea of an Angel ridin’ shotgun.”

 _If only you knew_ , Castiel thinks, mournful. His Dean wouldn’t have gotten this far—one kiss, and he would’ve turned his back, terrified out of his mind, purely afraid of the implications, of what Castiel’s intention for him really was. Though, his intentions are clear and beginning to crack, fizzling at the edges—what’s the purpose of proceeding with the end of the world if he can’t have this, if he can’t have Dean in all of his facets? If he can’t have this, then what’s the point? This bright eyed man with shattered ambition and longing in his eyes, hoping for a better life—if only he could see what would be in store for him years down the road.

At least through all of it, Castiel will be with him, and this night won’t be in vain.

“You should kiss me,” Castiel says, mirthful as he sits up to bring an arm around Dean’s waist. It’s more of a suggestion, but Dean goes with it, both hands fisting the back of Castiel’s coat while they kiss, even more hurried before. He’s practically writhing by the time Castiel rubs his free hand over the bulge in Dean’s jeans, defined and warm against his palm as he rubs, torturous.

“Please,” Dean whimpers, squirming into Castiel’s hand.

“You’re so impatient,” Castiel wonders aloud, nipping along Dean’s jaw. With skilled fingers, he unbuttons Dean’s fly and yanks his zipper down unceremoniously, exposing the waistband of Dean’s boxer briefs and his arousal tenting the soaked fabric. He’s been like this for a while, Castiel figures, dipping his fingers beneath the fabric to take hold of Dean’s cock, warm and so, so wet in his grasp. In his lap, Dean chews his lip and rocks into Castiel’s grip, the head of his purpled cock disappearing into Castiel’s fist as he thrusts, abortive and stuttering. Precome seeps through his fingers, wetter than he imagined and so, so tempting to taste.

Dean comes before the thought even crosses Castiel’s mind to let go, orgasm ripped from him before Dean can even comprehend just what happened. His shout echoes through the interior of the Impala and Castiel’s ears, thick white fluid painting his fist and the front of his tie, dripping off onto his slacks. “Sorry,” Dean sputters, utterly winded, unable to even open his eyes to see the mess he made. “Sorry, sorry, sorry—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Castiel assures, none the bit chastising. He rubs down Dean’s side in reassurance, waiting for his breathing to settle, for him to come back into his skin. “Dean, look at me.”

“Sorry,” Dean repeats, still all the bit ashamed.

“You did nothing wrong.” Tilting Dean’s chin, he drops a kiss to Dean’s jaw, up to his cheek, the tip of his nose, lips, all until Dean opens to him again, this time looser, infinitely more relaxed than when Castiel appeared just minutes before. “You came on my tie, though.”

Dean snorts, covering his face with both hands. “God, I’m not usually that fast,” he says, scornful of himself. “Just… haven’t been with a guy in a long… _long_ time.”

“Such a shame,” Castiel coos close to Dean’s ear. “You enjoy it so much.”

The sound Dean makes is barely human, let alone anything near a moan. Whatever it is, Castiel swallows it in a heated kiss, grunting when Dean rushes him, hands in Castiel’s hair and his dick pressed to the ruined fabric of Castiel’s tie. He’s still hard, heavy when Castiel palms him through his pants, impossibly warm in his grasp and still leaking, slicking his hand with precome. “Please,” Dean sputters, mouthing kisses along Castiel’s jaw, clumsy and unsure.

Whatever composure Dean previously held is gone, replaced with a frenzy Castiel hasn’t felt before, especially all within reach. “Please,” Dean repeats, breath hot against Castiel’s neck, enticing.

Banishing the last of his resolve, Castiel gives in.

“There’s no room here,” he sighs, Dean still mouthing lazily beneath Castiel’s ear, drawing blood to the surface. The back seat probably isn’t much better, but at least there, they don’t run a risk falling underneath the steering wheel or having the misfortune of someone spotting them while driving past. Dean doesn’t make it any less difficult to move, though, apparently oblivious to whatever Castiel is implying, too focused on touching whatever inch of him he can: his hands to Castiel’s chest, shrugging off his coat and jacket to pool in the footwell, skilled fingers undoing each button of his shirt until Castiel stops him, taking both of his wrists in hand.

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, close to his ear, warm breath eliciting a shiver from Dean. Wary, Dean leans back, bracketing Castiel’s hips once Castiel lets him go. For a long while, Dean just stares at him with hunger in his eyes, cheeks flushed and lips wet from kisses; Castiel just wants to mark him further, lay claim to this soul again while he still can, when Dean can enjoy it without hating himself in the aftermath, without pushing it aside and burying it deep, only to revisit it in his nightmares.

“Why’d you stop?” Dean asks, hushed, equally as frightened when Castiel reaches up to touch him, thumb pressed to the softness of his lips.

Castiel just offers him a smile and kisses him, waits for Dean to soften in his arms, melting against Castiel’s lips with ease. This Dean—he’ll never tire of him, of how pliant he is, of how willingly he gives himself over despite his better judgment. The world can’t hurt him here. The world won’t hurt him for a few more years, and until then, he’ll live in blissful ignorance, enjoying himself where he can. Hopefully, Castiel thinks, this can be a lasting memory.

“Backseat,” Castiel says between kisses, enough of an order as he needs.

Dean follows through with grace, crawling off Castiel’s lap and allowing him to sit up. Working himself over the bench seat is a feat in itself, so tedious when Castiel could just shift himself there, move his atoms through the leather those few inches until he’s settled. Instead, he nearly throws his knee into the footwell as he crawls over, eventually maneuvering himself lengthwise across the bench. Dean follows after some shuffling, tossing a small half-used bottle next to the water bottle beneath the passenger seat. “For… later,” Dean manages, quiet and red-faced, equally ashamed and aroused.

It only makes Castiel want to take more. “Come here,” Castiel beckons with an open palm, urging Dean to crawl over his waist once again. Once he’s there, Castiel helps pull Dean’s shirt over his head, the full extent of him revealed in the dim light of the night. He’s red down to his navel, blotchy in spots, a fine film of sweat beginning to shine against scarred skin. “You like this,” Castiel says, an answer to a question unasked; Dean nods anyway, occupying himself with undoing the remainder of Castiel’s buttons until he can pull Castiel’s shirt open.

Whatever Dean sees there, he spends a long while running his fingers over Castiel’s skin, over the raised scar over his heart and another near his hip, over toned abs and the cut of his hip. This body is beautiful, or so Dean says with his lips; this is only a vessel, and a perfect one at that, one that Dean takes pride in touching, stirring warmth deep at Castiel’s core. “Wanna blow you,” Dean says, lapping at Castiel’s nipple before nipping there, enough to draw it to a peak, more sensation than Castiel knows what to do with at one time.

With the insinuation, Castiel swallows, nods. No one has ever touched him like this, in any form. Frightening as it is, it’s more than he could ever want, even express. “Yes,” he says, and Dean sinks lower.

It takes some adjusting, but Dean slips Castiel’s shoes off and works his zipper down, afterwards tucking his thumbs beneath Castiel’s boxers to tug them, and his pants, off. His clothes lay in a pile on the floor while Dean slips between his legs, steady yet trembling hands pressed to the inside of his thighs. There, he watches Dean take his time, laying a string of slow kisses up his legs, over his hipbone, venturing nowhere near where he wants it the most.

Figures, this Dean is as much of a tease as his is.

“You’re unbearable,” Castiel huffs, earning a chuckle from Dean.

“I’ll make it good for you,” Dean soothes, resting a hand on Castiel’s hip, thumbing at the skin there, sweat damp. The humidity in the car isn’t doing them any favors, Castiel realizes, growing thicker the more he breathes, the more Dean touches him with absolute reverence, like he’s taking his time. Or hell-bent on torturing him, either one.

For a while, Castiel simply allows himself to feel, taking in the warmth of Dean’s fingers against him, coaxing him to relax under his touch; his mouth is scalding when he kisses along Castiel’s cock, half hard in Dean’s hand and growing, Dean’s eyes locked on his along the way. Too human, is his first thought—a greater sin than he’s ever committed, lying with a human, allowing himself to be touched by one so intimately, in such confined quarters. Yet, Dean treats him with kindness, every touch sending anxious waves of something foreign through his veins, borrowed blood centering where he wants, all provided to him by a boy—a man—he’s only recently come to know, and this one, he barely recognizes at all.

This Dean takes him apart with his lips, sucking wet kisses to the tip of Castiel’s cock, foreskin pulled back, now hard in Dean’s grasp, straining in his palm. “You ever done this before?” Dean asks, tongue licking at the slit, lapping up the precome that spills over, trapped behind full lips. Castiel wants nothing more than to kiss him, to taste himself on Dean’s tongue. For now, he lets himself feel, groaning when Dean finally takes him into his mouth, inches at a time, loose, warm heat enveloping him to the root.

Awestruck, Castiel leans his head back, ignoring as it thumps against the glass. Dean doesn’t pay attention, simply continues his ministrations, his fist wrapped around what of Castiel’s cock he can’t swallow down. Touching Dean only spurs him on, and ever so gently, Castiel tugs at his hair, drawing a moan from him, vibrating around Castiel’s length. “Beautiful,” Castiel breathes through a moan, and in the darkness, he can see Dean flush bright red.

It takes another minute before Castiel can bring himself to look, to admire the boy in his lap, spit-wet lips wrapped around where he’s most sensitive, eyes glassy and hazed, Dean too lost in it to care much about anything. His mouth is sin itself, swollen and red when Castiel thumbs his lower lip, simply to feel him work, to feel the give and the wet slide of Dean’s saliva and his own release mingling on Dean’s tongue. If anything, it only makes Dean try harder, subsequently gagging and pulling off when he draws Castiel too deep.

“You have nothing to prove here,” Castiel soothes, palming Dean’s chest while Dean steadies himself, too startled to do anything but breathe. “This isn’t a race.” He offers Dean a smile and, hand to his chin, leads him in, meeting Dean’s lips with ease.

It warms him, how easily this Dean gives in to him, how this Dean is so eager to please without thinking of himself in turn. In Tallahassee, his Dean is too preoccupied with saving the world to think of his own needs, to allow someone like Castiel to accept help when it’s given, to take what he’s offered, to respect those who dare descend to his level. Angels are warriors, yes; Angels have rules, restrictions, orders to follow and commands to give.

But if he allows himself, Castiel could fall for this, just to feel so cherished by a boy he barely knows, a man willing to give himself over if it means someone else can survive.

Dean kisses him with honeyed lips, both hands cupping Castiel’s neck, thumbs pressing over the dip in his throat just to feel. “Want you,” Dean admits, soft and ashamed. “Don’t know why, but… You feel good. Feel like I wanna be with you, like I don’t want this to stop. You feel so…”

“Do you want me?” Castiel asks, sweet, a low whisper in Dean’s ear.

Dean shudders against him and nods, letting out a low whimper when Castiel smoothes his hand down Dean’s spine, resting on his tailbone before dipping lower. He’s still wearing pants, his underwear pulled down to rest around his thighs, cock still hard and thumping against the leather seats, wet.

There are tales about this, tales Castiel elects to ignore in favor of shoving Dean onto the bench and ridding him of the rest of his clothing. Tales of his brothers and sisters lying with the children of man, of the pleasures they derived from such acts, and how unholy it was to even consider mortals worthy of such attention. Drawing Dean into his lap, nude and flushed red to his ears, Castiel can’t understand why. Humans love with more than their words; he could drown in Dean’s touch, give himself over to his affections if it means he can have this forever, if he can swallow Dean’s words and let them linger within his Grace.

But he can’t—this is one night. This is a mission, he tells himself, nothing more. His Dean would never think of him this way, would never consider handing himself over so easily. Would never consider loving someone so ethereal and ancient, when it’s all Castiel’s ever wanted. To be worshiped, adored. Loved.

“Want you,” Dean says and straddles Castiel’s waist, arms around his neck. “Want you, please—”

Castiel hushes him with a kiss, smiling against Dean’s lips. “In time,” he says, low. Hand to Dean’s hip, he leans over to retrieve the bottle Dean abandoned, careful to wet his fingers while Dean bites kisses to Castiel’s neck, feverish. “Slow down,” he says, swallowing Dean’s moan as he slides his fingers down to where Dean’s sensitive, toying with his rim before sinking a fingertip in. He earns Dean’s praise in return, along with pleas for Castiel to go deeper, to let him feel it.

By all means, Castiel intends to.

It takes some maneuvering—somehow Dean ends up with his foot in the footwell and Castiel half shoved into the passenger door—but they make it work, Dean pushing down onto Castiel’s fingers, two now, slick with lubricant and sliding in easily; curling them only makes Dean howl, his dick giving a feeble twitch against his belly, almost touching Castiel’s chin.

Castiel could, if he wanted. Given the chance, he could return the favor, watch Dean unravel in his hands just from a single touch. And Dean would accept it so easily, would grow hotter on Castiel’s tongue, would come just from the feel of Castiel’s mouth around him. Such a simple thing, to feel Dean hand over his life to the hands of something he can’t even comprehend, especially now.

“You’re beautiful,” Castiel praises, retrieving his fingers to slick them again. Dean whines from the loss, his nails digging crescents into Castiel’s shoulders when he presses in again, three fingers now, even more teasing than before. Dean clings to him with adoration, eyes closed, head thumping the roof as he rides Castiel’s fingers without hesitance.

If he could, Castiel would have this every day, this reverence, this unbridled devotion. As it stands now, he takes what he can and catalogs it, remembers the taste of Dean’s kiss, the warmth of his skin, the light in his eyes, how easily he gives. He truly is remarkable in this light. Why his Father tasked him to retrieve Dean from Hell, now, maybe he can begin to understand.

With reluctance, he removes his fingers a final time and palms Dean’s chest, still slick with remnants of lubricant. “Wanna ride you,” Dean pants against Castiel’s mouth, nipping his lower lip with each kiss. “C’mon…”

“You’re sure?” Castiel asks between kisses. Dean could say no, and he would end it there; as painful to part as it would be, he could at least leave Dean a fleeting memory, hidden away in his mind to only recall years down the road, of when a creature showed him kindness and compassion, when a creature didn’t attempt to eviscerate him at first sight.

His heart soars when Dean nods, following with, “I want you to,” and leaning down to retrieve something from his pants pocket, strewn on the floor with the rest of their clothing.

Together, they help Castiel onto his back, a foot on the floor while Dean tears open a condom wrapper with his teeth and, pushing Castiel’s foreskin back, rolls the latex onto his cock, afterwards layering it in more lubricant. Castiel cups his hips while Dean situates himself, one knee to Castiel’s side, his other foot braced against the floor. He feels so frail here, yet still so determined, his eyes pinched shut as he takes Castiel’s cock in hand and lowers himself, the head slipping inside.

Castiel almost loses himself with that first inch, his moan meeting Dean’s and echoing throughout the interior of the car. Dean’s not much better off, his lip between his teeth and a hand splayed across Castiel’s sternum. “Fuck,” Dean breathes, almost hysteric, as he pushes down, Castiel slipping in with relative ease. The more Dean relaxes, the deeper he goes, until Dean’s fully seated, panting against Castiel’s neck. “Fuck, please…”

“Castiel,” Castiel whispers, stroking up Dean’s torso just to feel him shiver. “Call me Castiel.”

The first thrust is what sets Dean off, his body caught in orgasm against his will. Even then, so enrapt in his pleasure, Dean is beautiful, mouth parted in a quiet moan, his cock warm and twitching in Castiel’s hand while he strokes Dean, come striping his fingers and dripping off his hand. He shakes in the aftermath, both hands bracketing Castiel’s head while he comes down, sucking in air. To Castiel’s shock, he begs, “Don’t stop,” and pushes back down onto Castiel’s cock, slow, laborious.

“You’re sure?” Castiel asks again, and Dean nods, eyes pinched shut. “Dean…”

“I want you to,” Dean says. Leaning down, he kisses Castiel once, soft, before burying his face in Castiel’s neck. “Please, Castiel…”

That’s enough for him. Arms around Dean’s waist, Castiel thrusts in, slow, enrapt with the give of Dean’s muscles, how oversensitive he is, how pliant he is in his hands. “I’ve never known this,” Castiel says, sucking another mark to Dean’s neck, teeth nipping at tender, vulnerable skin. “I’ve never known you, this way…”

“Damn, I’m missin’ out,” Dean laughs.

He kisses Castiel’s jaw before sitting up, gripping the top of each bench seat to meet each of Castiel’s thrusts, head thrown back in awe. His neck is mottled purple, all from Castiel’s mouth, joining the sweat-soaked flush of his chest and kiss swollen lips. This is dangerous, Castiel knows—committing such an act is the utmost blasphemy to his siblings, but feeling Dean above him, around him, touching every inch of him, is enough to make up for it. “You’ve taught me things,” Castiel says, somewhat mournful; he reaches up to pull Dean closer, Dean falling willingly, his arms barely holding him up anymore. “So many things, Dean—”

“You talk too much,” Dean joshes. It’s endearing, really, how affectionate he is, especially now, sweating and writhing in his lap. Somehow in the midst of their tryst, he captures Castiel’s heart, that smile so rare with the Dean he knows, now expressed so freely, bearing no pain. All innocent eyes, all the world in his hand.

Castiel doesn't have the heart to tell him. It would only shatter the moment.

Dean clings to him with an arm around his neck, the other fisting his cock between them, half hard and leaking profusely, his fist slick with it. “Dean,” is all Castiel says before he pulls out, abrupt enough to startle Dean. Using the momentum, he takes Dean by the hips and topples him, Dean’s head colliding with the leather with a soft smack. Castiel is on him in the interim, catching Dean in a kiss before he parts Dean’s legs, placing one atop the bench, the other hanging off the side.

Dean just blinks up at him, smiling against Castiel’s lips. “Should push me around more often,” he says, mirthful. It’s amusing until Castiel pushes again, and all further complaints cease.

From this angle, Castiel can see the full breadth of Dean’s expressions, his lips parted sinuously, the freckles spanning his nose lit by the scant light pouring in from the windows. He refuses to open his eyes until Castiel prompts him, “Look at me,” with a hand to his cheek. Only then does Dean look up, his eyes wet, a stray tear spilling over and dripping into his hairline. “Dean,” Castiel mourns, and Dean just brushes him off, grinning as bright as he can.

“Just like you,” he says, every bit the truth.

Castiel surrounds him then, cupping Dean’s face in his hands between kisses, moaning between every thrust, every touch, Dean’s fingers digging red lines into his back, along where his wings reside, sending shivers along appendages Dean can’t see. Regardless, Castiel begs, “Don’t stop,” and crowds Dean closer, chasing the euphoria of hot skin and Dean, Dean, “ _Dean_.”

With another drag of Dean’s fingers, Castiel comes, the breath stripped from his lungs, wings expanding to their full span through the car, unsettling the dust along the side of the highway. The streetlamp blows in a shower of sparks, many scattering on the hood; if Dean notices, he doesn’t seem to mind, both hands pressed to Castiel’s shoulders as Castiel rides it, the claustrophobia, the rolling waves that suffocate him, terrifying in its intensity. “You’re fine,” he hears Dean say, rubbing down his arms, drawing him back into his skin. “You did it, you’re okay.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Castiel comes back to himself, his eyes no longer the sole illumination between them. Outside, darkness is their company, the only witness to what just happened, to whispered words and hushed praises, to a confession Castiel can’t even begin to fathom. “Dean,” he blinks, bewildered, swallowing despite his dry throat.

“First time?” Dean asks, amused.

All Castiel can do is nod. “I’ve never… not…”

“Coulda fooled me,” Dean laughs. “You kinda… What was that?”

They don’t speak again until Castiel pulls out and disposes of the condom in an old McDonalds bag underneath the passenger seat, forgotten. He draws Dean into his arms afterwards, his back to the door, Dean sprawled across his lap, head to Castiel’s chest. Idly, Dean traces sigils into Castiel’s hip, eyes half lidded in exhaustion. Dean’s cock wanes, ignored in favor of this, subtle touches in the night and slow kisses shared between whispers.

“…You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Dean asks, eyes downcast.

He rests his head on Castiel’s shoulder, drawing him into an embrace, one Castiel hesitates to return, eventually settling his hands on the small of Dean’s back. “If it’s any consolation,” Castiel says, a secret, “I won’t erase your memory. Not entirely.”

Dean swallows. “But I’ll remember, right? I’ll…”

“When the time comes, you’ll remember,” Castiel offers. Dean accepts it as well as he can, nodding. “You’ll tell me, right? When you understand what this means, when…”

“Yeah.” Leaning up, Dean draws him into another kiss, deep, his tongue sliding along Castiel’s lower lip before he pulls away. “…How long have you known me?”

“Years,” is all Castiel says. Cautiously, he pulls his hands free, only to rest them on each of Dean’s shoulders, squeezing his skin tight enough to bruise, hopefully a lasting reminder when Dean can’t recall just why he parked here, or why the night sky will feel so lonely for years to come. _It won’t be long_ , Castiel tells himself, sealing it with a kiss. _I’ll be here when you remember_.

“…And hopefully, I’ll know you for years to come.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this in my drafts for awhile because Dan suggested writing s4 Cas and s1 Dean together, and I revisited it within the last two days and finished it. I don't get enough opportunities to write Cas, and this was different to try out, especially with early Cas! 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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